the cruel unsaid
by vanives
Summary: In which Padmé's husband tries to apologize.


His breathing betrays him first.

In the mirror she watches as he morphs out from the darkness; a shadow conjured to take form. The warm glow of her bedroom does nothing to help soften his presence. It has been a process to learn how to read him; his master has shaped this creature who calls himself her husband into something wholly unknowable, but she is learning. There is slight slouch to his proud shoulders, contrition.

Governments may rise and fall, but some things stay the same. He could never bear her anger at him. Quick to smooth over a row with a sweet word or kiss. She, of course, melted easily into his arms.

Padmé sits at the gilded vanity. Jewels, hair pins, and pots of blush set back in their rightful place after being flung to the floor in a rage. The carpet near her feet still drenched with the scent of her perfume. Padmé does not acknowledge him. She continues to dry her hair; still wet from her bath.

He moves to stand behind her, and as if not to startle, lightly covers her fingers. Stealing the towel from her grasp, he works the cloth through the strands. When he finishes he drops the damp towel by her feet. He could have put that in the hamper, she notes with a hint of annoyance. His hands return to her hair; his fingers lightly scratching at her scalp. A pleasant shudder runs through her.

"Padmé."

She doesn't speak. Wincing, when his fingers catch on a snarl.

"You must understand, everything I do is to keep you safe."

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

In the mirror the red lights of his chest plate wink at her. He moves closer, his cape brushing along her arm. He takes his hand from her hair, and places it on her cheek. His fingers a tender pressure on her flesh. She thinks of his fist clenching, of what horrors these mechanical hands have wrought, and how gentle he tries to be with her.

Except for the time he wasn't.

"You know I would do anything for you."

She looks down at her lap, hands resting on her thighs, the white lacquer on left forefinger is chipped. An ache unfurls in her chest as she remembers a black sky lit by flames; of dead children. Blood sacrifices all made in her name.

"I know." She whispers.

Silence, save for his regulated breathing, and the constant cacophony of Coruscant - no, Imperial Center, traffic beyond these walls.

He takes his hand from her cheek to rest on her shoulder. He plays with the collar of her robe, tracing the silver threads of embroidery. "You're unhappy." It is not a question.

She raises her head, his words unexpected. Her husband seemed at times to live in blissful ignorance.

"Yes." It would be pointless to lie. "And you? Are you happy?" She asks, genuinely curious.

"With you I am."

Padmé stifles a sigh. She lifts her hand to his and squeezes. The anger in her gut gradually uncoiling. He returns her gesture; in the mirror she memorizes the look of her small hand cradled in his. His thumb ghosts across her knuckles, finding the faded scar in the dip between her ring finger and pinky; a cut healed long before she had taken her reign name. He let's go, and she has the thought that he'll leave. He doesn't. Instead, he slips those crushing hands through her hair, and begins to plait the damp strands together.

Head tilted down, a smile twitches at the corner of her lips. In a past that feels like ancient history; he'd always delighted in pressing his face to her hair, breathing in the scent, he'd favored it unbound, twisting the curls between his fingers. He had, she discovered, a talent for weaving her hair together in her more elaborate updos. Teasing him that he could hold a position as one of her handmaidens.

As he finishes she turns around, neck craned awkwardly to look at his mask. The black lenses obscure his gaze, and all she can see is her own distorted reflection. She tries to recall the exact shade of his eyes; like the waters of her own beloved Naboo, or the endless Tatooine Sky. It is with a pang she realizes she can only see a suggestion of his face in her mind's eye; the arch of a thick brow, the fullness of a lower lip. If he catches the wave of melancholy from her he does not remark on it; only brushes a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.

"Tell me what to do." He entreats.

Her poor husband, always putting himself at the mercy of others.

Averting her eyes, she shrugs out from under his hand. There is much she wants to say, but the words are stuck behind her teeth. Voice thin, all she can manage is, "Nothing. There's nothing you can do."

"...do you forgive me?" Is that hesitance she hears? Vulnerability hidden in the depths of that striking baritone.

Her nails press meanly into the fleshy part of her palm. "Yes." How could she not? She has forgiven him for much worse.

"Do you love me?"

Padmé's nails leave little half-moon indents in her skin. She relaxes her grip. Straightening her spine, she takes one last glance at that dread mask before turning back to face the mirror.

"If I could cut it out I would."


End file.
